


Someone Else, Someone Good

by auntieomega



Series: Is It Really So Strange? [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: 1980s, Abusive Tony, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bi-curious Tony Stark, Bondage, Breathplay, Bruce is Kinda Creepy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Issues, Drugs, Dubious Consent, First Time Bottoming, Gags, Gay Bruce Banner, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Male Friendship, Minor Violence, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Spanking, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Iron Man 1, Rimming, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Tension, Sleeper Hold, Tacky Mentally Disabled Jokes, Teen Angst, Teen Bruce Banner, Teen Tony Stark, Teenagers, Tony Has Long Hair, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Tony is Obnoxious, Urination, Vomiting, politically incorrect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auntieomega/pseuds/auntieomega
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before Iron Man or Hulk, Tony and Bruce met as teens one summer and discovered a complicated attraction and a unique bond.</p>
<p>WARNING: Contains an act of dubious consent due to a misunderstanding.</p>
<p>*Takes place in the same universe as my "A Marvelish Romance" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *The horrible things teen Tony thinks and says are his words, not mine! In fact, please don’t attribute any opinion expressed in this story to me. (Except Jägermeister tasting like roach spray. I’m with Bruce on that one.)
> 
> **Feel free to create a scene in your imagination where Tony learns not to call people ‘faggot-ass’ and ‘retard.’ I didn’t feel like tackling it in this story, but it must have happened somewhere along the way.
> 
> WARNING: A scene contains a sexual act of dubious consent arising from a misunderstanding.

_July 1986, Venice Beach, California_  
 _Tony is 16, Bruce is 17—both are sophomores in college using summer session II as a much needed break_

Tony stood on the edge of the crowd and smoothed a hand down the front of his gold mesh muscle shirt. The afternoon breeze, full of Pacific Ocean salt and the funk metal sounds of a new L.A. band called Jane’s Addiction, blew his long dark hair over his face. He brushed it away. It didn’t feel like hair—it, like everything else, felt surreal, as if he were walking in a multi-sensory Salvador Dali painting. Tripping at the outdoor concert had sounded like a fun diversion, but it wasn’t helping.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t quite shake Jordan out of his head. All day, he had caught glimpses of her—a lean golden arm adorned with silver bangles, a black waterfall of loose curls, a flash of sculpted golden calf. But always they were other girls—pretty, but not Jordan—not the gray-eyed goddess who had somehow broken his heart.

Was it simply that she had ended their relationship first? That was _his_ m. o. A strategic strike—get in, get the fuck out. No muss, no fuss. But it had been different with Jordan. And it wasn’t just that she had been different. _He_ had been different. He had—loved her? Possibly. They had been together for almost two months—a record! And then the evil little cunt had dumped him—Tony Stark—playboy billionaire genius—for some half-witted professional soccer player. Bitch. Cunt. Fucking bitch cunt.

Worse, he didn’t feel like redeeming his manhood by seducing a few fly babes into the hot tub in his jet. This jaunt to the west coast wasn’t healing his wounds. He felt too frayed at the edges. He felt—fragile, almost, as if every heartbeat might be his last.

Part of that feeling could have stemmed from the two hits of acid he had dropped earlier that day. Part of it could have been all of the tequila he had consumed since then. In any case, the crowd around the stage moved like some kind of large single-celled animal—maybe a paramecium—with cilia made of human arms and legs. He pulled his gaze from it with effort, unable to take the monstrous apparition any longer, and found a guy on the edge of the crowd staring at him.

He was a scrawny little shit with silver Ben Franklin glasses and a bunch of bracelets and crap around one of his skinny wrists. His dirt-brown hair was mostly short except the top looked like an electrocuted cartoon character. His black shirt read, “Skinny Puppy.” Tony wasn’t sure if that was a band or if the nerd was trying to own his nerdieness by marketing it. Certain girls found that sort of shit endearing.

The guy looked away. Tony wasn’t sure how long he had held his stare. Time had become vague and nebulous. It ballooned at the edges, folded in on itself and defied measurement. Skinny Puppy looked at him again. No, Benji—because of those stupid glasses and that ugly little dog in the movies. Benji was shooting lasers through him. Tony took this as an advertisement.

He walked over and grinned. “Hey, Benji. You holding?” Benji blinked at him. Behind the little rectangles of his wire-rim glasses were the most haunted brown eyes Tony had ever seen. Tony staggered back a step. “Jesus, Benji, what happened to you?”

Benji frowned a little. “No, I’m Bruce.” He looked down with a slight sigh. “You’re looking for someone else.”

Tony poked Ben—Bruce’s chest. “It was a joke.” Bruce blinked at him stupidly. Obviously, the poor boy was a little slow. “I’m Tony, and I’m sorry you’re all—” Words kept evading him, slipping through his fingers. He made the mistake of staring at his fingers. He moved them around a little, enjoying the webbing the tracers created. He fanned them in front of Bruce’s face so he could enjoy the show. “Banjos. Deliverance. Squeal like a pig!”

Bruce’s eyes had become very big. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t fuck with me. Are you holding or not?”

“I have a little shake.”

“Hmph.” Tony dug his wallet out of the pocket of his gray shorts.

Bruce pushed his arm down. “Do I look like a drug dealer? I’m not selling.”

“You will when you see what I’m willing to pay for it.”

Bruce snorted. “Fuck that. I’ll share.” He nodded toward a line of portapotties. “Over there. C’mon.”

Tony followed his special new friend behind the little shit-boxes. He watched Bruce pull a feeble-looking joint out of a plastic baggie from a pocket of his stupid canvas shorts. Tony kept staring at Bruce’s stupid shorts. Was he going to hike fire trails after the show? He looked up and found Bruce eyeballing him.

“You were going to share your joint,” Tony reminded him. Retard.

Tony enjoyed the sound of the lighter sparking, the way the flame undulated in the southern California breeze even as Bruce’s hand shielded it, the lovely crackle as Bruce pulled on the joint. Bruce passed him the joint with a smile—retards were friendly people.

Tony inhaled, holding the smoke deep as he passed the joint back to Bruce. In silence, they passed the joint back and forth. No bogarting on either side. They shared like good little kindergarteners. All the while, Bruce’s big brown eyes devoured him with the intensity of a Special Olympian giving a hug. It was a spooky intensity that brought to mind spree shooters and serial killers. Tony wondered if Benji had access to a crawlspace. “So,” Tony said after a while, exhaling smoke, “what does this do to you anyway?”

Bruce stared at him in obvious confusion.

“I mean, when you smoke it, what do you get out of it?”

“Me, personally?”

Tony sighed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could humor retarded Benji. “Exactly.”

“It makes me calmer.” Bruce’s gaze fell to the ground. “I have trouble…staying calm. Herb helps.”

“That’s awesome,” said Tony, relieved that Benji probably wasn’t going to go home and axe murder his mom. “Way to go, dude.”

“You’re weird.” Bruce started snickering behind his hand like a geisha after huffing nitrous oxide. “Fuck, you looked so damned cool just standing there, but you’re—” Bruce grinned hugely. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Retarded, but wise. Tony nodded his approval.

Bruce sobered a little and grew quiet. They finished the joint and he tucked the roach away. Tony looked back at the stage and the gyrating, multi-limbed animal surrounding it. The sound of the lighter brought his attention back to his chowderhead buddy.

“Dessert?” said Bruce, offering him a lit cigarette.

“No,” Tony scowled at him. “You shouldn’t smoke, Benji. That stuff will kill you.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and puffed a little haughtily. “Everything kills you. Besides, all life is death, really, if you think about it.”

“Fuck, you’re a downer. I thought you people were supposed to be innocent and happy.”

Bruce stared at him, the poor guy’s face the picture of confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“No need to apologize, Benji. You have my everlasting gratitude.” He gave Bruce a clap on the shoulder. “Enjoy the show.” With that, he turned and strode back toward the crowd.

***

As Tony was making his way back to the concert area, a group of skinheads walked past him. One shoved against his shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. “Watch where you’re going, you fucking faggot!” the skinhead snarled.

“You’re the faggot,” spat Tony. “Wearing Doc Martins at the beach. Fucking hairless cancer kid.”

The asshole stared at Tony with a dull-eyed rancor. One of his friends swaggered to his side. “What’s this pussy-mouthed cock-smoker saying?”

“He’s saying he wants his ass kicked,” said another of the skinhead pack.

“I’m saying you Neo-Nazi ass-punks worship a syphilitic loser.” Tony turned to the stupid asshole who had asked what he was saying. “And this,” he pointed to his facial hair, “is a perfect van dyke. But I can see how you’d make that mistake since your virginal ass wouldn’t know a pussy if one kweefed in your ugly-ass face.”

And that was all it took.

He thought he was prepared for the first punch, but it knocked him back more than he expected. He was able, however, to bust the nose of the little shithead trying to knee him in the groin. He couldn’t tell which one that was exactly—there were five of them and they were all a flurry of fists, white tee shirts, red suspenders, Doc Martins, and shaven heads. Tracers were everywhere. He couldn’t strategize; he could only punch wildly, trying to keep his feet beneath him.

Then he heard something like a growl and an opening appeared. He shot out of the pack and saw his benefactor—fucking Benji, wailing on the skinhead he had tackled. For a moment, he could only stare in confusion. Skinny-ass Benji was a psycho. He was beating the guy to a pulp. “Benji, fuck! He’s down already. Get off him!”

Tony narrowly dodged a fist to his face, giving his attacker a good punch to the gut. He shoved the breathless creep into one of his stupid friends. He looked around and found Bruce attacking another one while a second grabbed him from behind. Tony should have left then. He could have run away and disappeared into the crowd.

Instead, he kneed one of the assholes he had been fighting in the face, elbowed the other in the throat, and rushed the guy holding Bruce. He managed to take him down. He threw a punch to his jaw, but caught the ground instead. Pain shot up his arm. He took a punch in the mouth, but gave one back left-handed. He stole a second to see how Bruce was doing.

Without the element of surprise, the wispy boy’s ferocity was no match for his larger adversary’s size and strength. Bruce was getting his ass handed to him. One of the others Tony had thought he had taken out of commission joined in the fun. “It’s not cool to hit retards!” Tony yelled at them.

He struggled up to help Bruce, but a kick to the side of his head kept him down. He crawled off of the guy he had collapsed on before taking another kick. Everything went gray. Suddenly, he found his vision and looked up, his hair dragging in the sand. He saw Bruce drop to the ground amid the skinheads. Tony tried to lift himself up, but blackness closed around him, and this time he stayed down.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Tony woke in the passenger seat of a moving car. He could tell from the cheap interior that it was some kind of crappy import. He stuck his head out the open window to see its ugly body. A Datsun. Oh holy mother of all fuck. He—Tony Stark—was riding in a fucking Datsun. Some kind of pansy new wave shit played over the crummy speakers. Obviously, hell was real.

“Do you need to puke?”

He looked over and saw Ben—Bruce driving. “No. Not yet.”

But the car veered off to the shoulder. The no seat belt warning buzzed as Bruce exited the car. He showed up on Tony’s side and opened the door. He held his right arm close to his side. He offered Tony his left one. “Do you want to get out?”

Tony stayed where he was. “No.”

“You can just hang your head over if you want.”

“No.” And then Tony flung his head out of the car and spewed chunks on the pavement. Bruce held his hair. Tony wiped his mouth. “You’d make a good sorority sister, Benji.”

One-handed, Bruce helped him sit back. Then Bruce opened the glove box and ratted around for something. He came up with a pen light and flashed it in Tony’s face. He peered at Tony intently, waving the light from eye to eye. “Your pupillary response looks okay. No unilateral abnormal posturing. No unilateral pupil dilation.” He moved the arm guarding his side to hold up a finger for Tony to follow. “I don’t think you have a concussion. Still, maybe I should take you to a hospital.”

“You’re not a retard.”

“No. I think Marina Del Ray Hospital is probably closest.”

“I can’t go to a hospital,” said Tony. “I took acid earlier. I’m still tripping. And we reek of pot.”

“We do?”

Tony frowned. “Yeah, you’d probably be able to smell it if it weren’t for your fucking cancer sticks.”

“Yeah.”

Tony became strangely preoccupied with Bruce’s face. “How did your glasses survive?”

“I put them in my pocket before getting into the fight.”

“Still, they shouldn’t have survived unscathed…. Maybe they’re magic glasses.”

Bruce grinned. “I’m glad one of us is enjoying himself.” Bruce tucked Tony back in the car, shut the door, then got back in on his side. He sighed and stared out the windshield for a moment. He turned to Tony suddenly. “Oh fuck! You got your ass kicked on acid! That’s horrible!”

“It hasn’t been the best trip of my life.” He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’m coming down now.”

“Coming down always sucks. Do you have any benzos?”

“No.”

“They help.” He smiled. “I have some Valium at my place. You can stay there tonight, and I’ll watch you to make sure you’re okay.”

“You live around here?”

“No, it’s a beach house I’m renting with a couple of other students for the summer.”

“Killer.” Tony stared out the grubby side window.

They drove for a while in silence. The sun began to set, the pollution causing the sky to break out in pinks and reds as bright as a baboon’s ass. Finally, Tony said, “How did we get out of there? The last thing I remember, you were getting the shit kicked out of you.”

“We were saved by a pack of women weightlifters.”

Tony groaned. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” said Tony, “the story goes like this: we were attacked by a gang of skinheads and we beat them like meat.”

“Yeah. I guess that sounds better than we got the snot beaten out of us and probably would be in comas if not for a bunch of girls.”

Tony watched the dust crawl at the edges of the windshield. After a while he said, “You take a punch well.”

Bruce laughed slightly. “Practice, practice, practice.”

“Yeah. I loved the way you tried to wear them out by being their punching bag.”

“I admire your fighting style too. I thought how you blocked that guy’s boot with your head was inspired.”

Tony grunted appreciatively. “Seriously though, for a little pencil-necked geek, you’re kind of scary.”

“We’re about the same size.” That had needled him. He sounded quite peeved.

Tony laughed. “We’re about the same height, but I’m ripped and you have little girl arms.”

Bruce laughed, coughed, then sort of whimpered. “Please don’t. My ribs are bruised. It hurts.”

“You’re sure they’re just bruised?” Tony was too concerned to mask it.

Bruce glanced at him. “I’ve had broken ribs before. I can tell the difference.”

Tony stared out the side window. “That’s good,” he said. “Before, what I was trying to say was if you ever got some muscle behind that crazy anger, you’d be wicked badass.”

Bruce snorted. “Like that’ll ever happen.” After a few minutes he said in a soft voice, “You fight with a lot of heart. You’re totally committed. I know at one point you could have left me. Most guys probably would have.”

“Did you notice how many people were on that beach? You’re the only one who rushed in to help me.”

“Yeah, except the women weightlifter hoard helped eventually.”

Tony shook his head, grinning. “No, dude. Remember? _We_ beat the shit out of those skinheads all by ourselves.”

“Oh, right. We beat them like meat.”

“Like meat,” said Tony and jacked an imaginary cock.

“Speaking of meat,” said Bruce, “I left the contents of my stomach on the beach. Do you mind if we hit Taco Hell on the way?”

Tony assumed this was some cutesy way of referring to the fast food restaurant chain, Taco Bell. He had never been to a Taco Bell before. Although he had vomited recently, he felt sort of hungry. And Benji probably deserved some food. “I can eat.”

A short time later, they were staring at the lit menu outside the fast food joint while the Datsun sputtered and gasped. “Are you sure this stuff’s edible?” Tony asked. “Thirty-nine cents seems too cheap for a taco.”

“It’s edible. Mostly. Whether or not it’s food is debatable.”

They ordered and the Datsun died. It knocked back to life after a few tries and shook its way to the window, where they paid and picked up their food, such as it was. Since they had both gotten water to drink, their food had cost less than two dollars. Tony wasn’t sure whether to be excited or appalled. As soon as he took the first bite of his taco, he settled on appalled. Not only were the textures bizarre and frightening because he was baking, the food itself tasted suspicious and wrong. “What kind of meat is this supposed to be again?”

“They claim it’s beef.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking it’s cat.”

“I hope not.”

Tony held his taco up to the side of Bruce’s face. “Meeeeoooow.”

“Stop that shit; I’m driving.” But Bruce laughed.

“Dude, we should bury it in your yard or something. Farewell to Mr. Fluffy.”

Bruce cringed. “No. Don’t name it. That’s—no.”

Tony dug into the bag. “What did you get?”

“A bean burrito.”

Feeling adventurous, Tony smelled it. He shuddered and shifted as far away from it as possible.

Bruce grinned hugely. “So what do you think that is?”

“That’s what Mr. Fluffy left behind.”

***

Finally, they reached Bruce’s house. Although Bruce had referred to it as a beach house, it was actually a rundown bungalow in Inglewood. When Tony brought this up, Bruce had explained that this was as close to the beach as they could get.

“It has a pool in back,” said Bruce and showed it to Tony, giving him the grand tour of the Amityville Horror.

Even the fucking pool was lame. It was shaped like a peanut. When Tony knelt and stuck a hand in the water, it felt oily. He shuddered. “ _You moved the cemetery, but you left the bodies, didn’t you?_ ”

“Come to the bathroom and let me examine you,” said Bruce. “I think that cut over your eye needs a couple of stitches.”

Tony shrugged. As he started to follow Bruce back into the house, he tossed his remaining taco into the pool, giving Mr. Fluffy a burial at sea.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony sat on the closed toilet in the bathroom. He stared out the barred window over the tiny bathtub while Bruce cleaned his wounds with alcohol and Q-tips and butterfly stitched a cut over his eyebrow. It might have been weird to have another guy touch him so intimately, but, aside from the cigarette hanging out of Bruce’s busted mouth, his demeanor during it all was so professional that Tony almost forgot he was being tended by a silly kid and not a doctor.

It made sense, in a way. While they’d been driving in Bruce’s pathetic fucking beater, they had discovered that, not only were they close to the same age (Tony was younger by one year), they were both already in college. That was a trip. Even weirder, they both loved physics. They were both wicked smart—although nobody’d ever guess that about Benji just by looking at his dumbass face.

Because he was awesome, Tony was working on a master’s degree with a double major in both physics and engineering. Bruce, because he was a fucking douchebag, was pursuing plural doctorates in nuclear engineering, chemistry, biology and physiology. Douchebag. Tony bet he’d finish one or two of those and flake out on the rest. Still, Tony had never met someone so close to his age whose intellect compared with his.

Tony watched Bruce ash in the sink and let him examine the arm he had injured during the fight. Cancer stick in mouth, Bruce slid his fingers between Tony’s scuffed knuckles, around his wrist and felt up and down his forearm. Bruce paused to puff. “None of that hurt?”

“No.”

“That’s good.” Bruce drowned his cigarette in a puddle near the drain. He massaged Tony’s palm with his thumbs, then kneaded up Tony’s forearm. He smirked as he rubbed Tony’s elbow. “I broke my hand punching a gym floor once. I was so pissed. I took out one of the asshole’s kneecaps and another’s front teeth. Messed up my other hand some with the teeth, though.”

“You get jumped a lot in school?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. Not so much after a while, but early on…it sucked.”

Some wave of angry tension quivered over Bruce’s shoulders and flexed in his jaw. “The cowards always run in packs. Fucking dicks. I was always alone and there were always too many of them. Like I could help being smarter than them. Like it was some fucking sin to be different.” He snarled. “I’d still like to smash the fuckers. Smash them until their stunted brains turned to mush inside their narrow fucking skulls.”

Tony held up the index finger of his free hand and moved it like a finger puppet. In a croaking voice he said, “Redrum.”

Bruce blushed in embarrassment, giggling. He let go of Tony’s arm to hold his side. “I’m sorry.”

Tony shrugged. “It’s cool.” He had never met anyone who understood the estrangement that comes with being so gifted. Even when peers weren’t jealous idiots, they were insipid—boring ass fucks who were nothing but a waste of time. Or worse, they were brutal assholes—wanting to torture that which was different. He flexed his arm experimentally. It felt better. “For a disturbed individual, you’re kind of all right.”

Bruce put the first aid crap away, his expression subdued and his movements slinking. “I get so angry sometimes,” he said softly, glancing at Tony out of the corner of his eye.

“No shit.” Tony smirked. He was glad when Bruce gave a wary smile back.

Tony was starting to feel the Valium when Bruce led him to the gloomy living room and showed him to a saggy orange couch with ripped seats revealing cheap polyurethane innards. Tony stared at the couch. “Did this come with a bum or did that cost extra?”

“The house came completely furnished. Cool, huh?”

“Was that supposed to be sarcastic?”

Bruce laughed, wincing. “You gotta cut that shit out, man. You’re going to kill me.”

Tony sat on the nasty couch while Bruce pulled things out of the freezer. Bruce handed Tony a bag of frozen peas, a bag of frozen cut green beans and a bag of frozen corn and encouraged him to place these items on his bruises. Then he disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Thinking he was to sleep on the shredded couch, Tony lay down, propping his head on some mildewy crocheted pillow with a mushroom on it.

He lay there for what seemed a long time, watching the crevices of the popcorn ceiling undulate like posturing spiders. Bruce appeared out of nowhere, naked except for Mr. Yuk boxers, and coaxed him into a bedroom. It was filled with strange, languid sounds masquerading as music and a mesmerizing contrast of light and shadows. “Look. Improvised trip candy.” Bruce pointed to a wall in the darkened room. It was lit by the reflection of a desk light aimed at an aluminum pan filled with water. An oscillating fan kept the water moving so shadowy ripples waved across a field of light on the wall.

Holding his bags of frozen veggies, Tony sat on the end of the bed and watched Bruce’s cheap-ass light show. He watched in stunned silence while the music orbited around him and Bruce helped him out of his shoes. Bruce sat on the floor beside him. “I’ll stay up with you,” he said, clutching a bag of frozen broccoli to his side.

But after a while Bruce asked in a tight voice, “Are you ready to lie down yet?”

“Yeah,” said Tony. He pulled his gaze from the ripples and stripped to his red and gold briefs. He stretched out on the bed with his bags of frozen veggies. He noticed, for the first time, the posters scattered about the room. The images were vague in the semi-dark, but discernable. They were all pictures of men—beautiful men in various poses and various states of undress. He shot up as Bruce pulled back the sheets on his side of the bed. “Oh fuck! You’re gay!”

“You’re not?” Bruce sounded stung.

Tony pulled away to sit on the edge of the bed with one foot on the floor. “Fuck no! Do I look gay?”

“I’m going to choose not to answer that.”

Tony fumed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a Neanderthal?” Before Tony could react, Bruce said, “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Look, I didn’t bring you back here for sex. The pain is settling in, and I just want to lie down and be still with it.”

“Fucking fuck,” Tony muttered.

“Lie down and tomorrow I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Promise.”

“Pinky swear?”

Bruce stared at him humorlessly. “Is it necessary to the salvation of your somehow damaged masculinity to treat me like a dick?”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“How about this?” said Bruce, a little more animated. “I have in my possession a top-secret, high-tech device that will enable us to sleep in the same bed.” He rolled the bedspread into a long snake and divided the mattress with it. “This is a homo-shield. It will prevent me or any of my homo cooties from touching you.”

“This is so gay.”

“No, it’s not. ‘So gay’ would be if you hiked your ass in the air and I pounded the shit out of it. This is like little boys having a sleepover.”

Tony sighed and flopped atop the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the lights of passing cars crawl across it. Bruce lay down carefully, resting on his left side, his back to Tony. He put his bag of broccoli on his eye, which had become quite puffy. Tony waited for him to fall asleep. Bruce rustled, moved the bag to his stomach and curled his legs up.

Tony, with his three improvised ice packs, continued to wait for Bruce to fall asleep. But Bruce seemed uncomfortable and kept moving his icepack around. Tony kind of wanted to punch him in the back of the head, but his main punching hand hurt. Lucky fuckin’ Bruce put his broccoli back on his face.

“I never had a sleepover,” Tony said in a hushed voice. “My parents were always too busy for things like that, and then they sent me to boarding school.”

Bruce groaned and returned the broccoli to his stomach. “Isn’t boarding school like one big sleepover?”

“No. It’s more like a prison camp with shitty ties.”

“Oh,” said Bruce, utterly sincere. “I never realized. That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Tony set his bag of peas on Bruce’s face. “My hand’s getting cold,” he explained.

“Thanks,” said Bruce softly. In the same shy voice he said, “I always thought those kids were so fortunate.”

“I guess some of them are.” Tony sighed. “I was lonely. I had a friend for a while, but he hung himself when we were in sixth grade.”

“I’m so sorry.” Deep empathy filled Bruce’s voice. “I never really had friends growing up, but if I had and that had happened—I would be devastated.” He looked over his shoulder. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tony frowned at him. “How do you know? You weren’t there.”

“I don’t know, I guess. But I’m sure it wasn’t you. You can be kind of dickish, but I can’t imagine you being cruel to a friend. You don’t seem cruel.”

“Thanks, Benji.”

“What’s up with this Benji business?”

Tony grinned to himself. “Your shirt—Skinny Puppy.”

“That’s a band.”

“It reminded me of that dog in those movies. And you kind of look like that dog—sad brown eyes, looking like someone trimmed your hair with hedge clippers.”

Bruce snickered and caught a pained breath. “I shouldn’t think that’s funny.”

Tony grinned. Bruce thought everything was funny. He wasn’t even stoned now; he was just easy to crack up. “So, if I fall asleep, you’re not going to put on clown makeup and make a miniskirt out of my ass skin?”

Bruce had another little fit of amused agony. “I’m gay, not a serial killer.”

“Yeah? I saw those lampshades in the living room.”

After some kind of giggle-moan, Bruce gasped. “Dick.” He caught another breath. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“You’re the loser who wanted to have a sleepover.” He looked at Bruce’s back, wishing he could see his face. “Isn’t this the kind of thing kids do at sleepovers?” This time, there was only silence. Tony wondered if Bruce had somehow fallen asleep during the short interval in their conversation. As the pause lengthened, he wondered if Bruce had some serious injury and was now bleeding internally beside him. He turned on his side and laid a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce?”

Bruce said in a small voice, “I never had a sleepover either. I didn’t like to leave my mom alone in the house, and my father was a drunk.”

“Bummer. Were you embarrassed of him?”

“No. I hated him.” Bruce started shaking; Tony could feel him through the homo-shield. “He used to beat me. And Mom. When I was eight, he murdered her. I saw the whole thing.” He sucked a deep breath, but continued to shiver.

“Hey, man.” Tony smoothed a hand down Bruce’s quivering arm. “Chill, bro. You’re okay.”

“Adrenaline spike.” Bruce shot up. He bolted to the bathroom and vomited noisily in the toilet.

Tony listened to him, cringing. After a few ragged dry heaves that must have been excruciating with bruised ribs, he heard the faucet run as Bruce cleaned himself. He felt horrible for his friend. He sat up, turned on a light and waited for Bruce to return. For a fleeting moment, he imagined holding him, cradling his trembling body in his arms.

Bruce walked into the light, his face a mask of embarrassment. Tony leaned toward him. “You run out of slime, Ghostbuster?”

Bruce blinked at him with glassy eyes.

“The Vominator. Exorcist Bitch. Pukes of Hazard. Depech Commode. Jon Bon Barfy.”

Bruce stared at Tony silently for a few seconds then said, “Pukey Brewster?”

It wasn’t that funny, but Tony laughed. Bruce smirked, yet he remained standing where he was, holding his side and shivering. Tony patted the mattress as if encouraging a dog onto the bed. Bruce crept toward the bed and lay down, his back to Tony. Tony leaned over, propping his head on the homo-shield. “How do you tell if a physicist is an extravert?”

After a moment, Bruce said, “I don’t know.”

“He looks at your shoes instead of his.”

Bruce huffed a soft laugh.

“You know what they say about engineers, right?”

“They do it without looking at the manual?”

Tony gave Bruce’s shoulder a little shove. “Fucker.”

“Hmph,” replied Bruce.

Tony lay with his head on the homo-shield, breathing against Bruce’s neck. The music had stopped some time ago, and only the hum of the fan filled the room. Within a few minutes, Bruce was asleep, his breaths shallow and even.

Tony sighed and lay on his back. Instead of Jordan haunting his thoughts, he found himself thinking about Sean Finnegan, his best friend at boarding school. They had been closer than close from third grade to sixth. He had loved Sean like a brother, and sometimes, like something else. From third to fourth, they had shared a room and played games at night—comparing and exploring each other’s bodies. The games stopped in fifth grade, not only because they no longer shared a room, but also because Tony had grown tired of them. He began liking girls. Sean, however, still liked boys. But they remained friends. And then one winter break Sean went home and never returned.

Tony, who hadn’t gone home at all because his parents were skiing in the Alps, had stood by the great arched window in the library and watched the snow fall, wondering what hanging felt like, wondering if his friend had suffered, wondering if anything would have made a difference. He waited for hours for some answer, but there was only the falling snow—pale heavy flakes falling endlessly from a dark, uncaring sky.

Something about Bruce reminded him of Sean. It was more than just the gay part. More than just a sense of tragedy. It was acceptance, acceptance on some abyss-deep level. And maybe…a need for protection? Bruce didn’t seem to need physical protection the way Sean had, but there was something vulnerable about him. In a strange way, Bruce seemed to need protection from himself.

Tony fell asleep wrapped in thoughts of his long lost friend, remembering the way they had slept in each other’s arms when they were little, the way they had consoled each other’s loneliness with groping hands and tentative mouths.

***

Tony woke in the dark and found Bruce shivering in his sleep. Tony felt Bruce’s bare arm. It was cold to the touch and prickled with goosebumps. Bruce twitched, but didn’t wake. Tony unfolded the homo-shield and covered Bruce with it. He tucked the bedspread around him and rubbed his blanketed arm. “Pussy.”

He rolled over and pressed his back against Bruce’s, offering warmth and seeking it.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony was glad when Bruce finally sat up on the bed with a sleepy groan. “It’s about fucking time, Sleeping Beauty.” He paused his game to confront his new gaywad friend. “You don’t have any coffee up in this bitch.”

“I don’t drink coffee.” He sounded like a zombie, like someone in dire need of coffee.

“You fucking Amish or something?”

“No.” He yawned, cringing a little after. “We have cold Mountain Dew, flat Mountain Dew, or warm Mountain Dew.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“There’s also tap water, but it smells like week-old condoms. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Nice,” said Tony.

Bruce’s eyes came fully open. “How did you get on my computer?”

Tony cracked his knuckles. “Your password was easy. The formula for magnetically containing ten million Kelvin deuterium plasma in a torus—seriously? An infant could hack that mother.”

Bruce grinned. “An infant super genius.”

“Your porn collection sucks ass, man. It’s gayer than gay. It’s like ‘Liberace sucking a homo gerbil out of George Michael’s ass’ gay.”

“Yes,” said Bruce with a little bristle, “I’m gay. I think that accounts for it.” Bruce sniffed and frowned at the floor beside Tony’s chair. “Where’d you get pizza?”

“I ordered it. You’re working on doctorates in what again? Finger painting and eating glue?”

“Yeah, and nose picking and butt scratching.” His mock surliness turned apologetic. “I’m sorry you had to order pizza.”

“You have a half-empty jar of peanut butter, something fuzzy in the refrigerator, and a packet of ramen with no pot to cook it in. What the fuck is that all about?”

“You dip the dry noodles in peanut butter.”

Tony laughed. “That’s pathetic. Seriously. Have some pizza for fuck’s sake, Oliver Fucking Twist.” But he felt a little sick as Bruce rose with effort from the bed and sat gingerly on the floor beside the pizza box. Black bruises covered Bruce’s body. Tony realized suddenly what a beating the guy had taken trying to help him. “You look like a rotting banana.”

“I’m fine. Just sore. You know how it is—the next day always hurts more than the initial impact. It’s the inflammation.”

Tony felt a rush of something strange. Some warm emotion welled within his chest. “Put on a shirt, faggot-ass. You’re bumming me out.”

Bruce complied, wincing as he moved about the room. He was obviously in a lot of pain. Tony felt sorry for him. “C’mon, numb-nuts. Eat something and pop some Advil,” said Tony sternly. “I’m going to pulverize you on your own game. I’m going to kick your ass big time.”

Bruce snorted in amusement. “What if I kick your ass instead?”

“It won’t mean dick because you have no fucking life and have probably played this a million times before.”

“I’m going to kick your ass anyway.” Bruce picked the pepperoni off his slice of pizza. “I’m a nihilist. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Tony frowned at him. “What are you doing with your pepperoni? Are you Jewish?”

Bruce looked up with a lopsided grin. “First I’m Amish, now I’m Jewish? No.”

“You’re Muslim?”

“No.”

“A vegetarian? A communist?”

“No, I’m more of a povertarian. But I don’t like eating pigs. They’re too much like people.”

“I don’t know about that, but a lot of people are pigs.”

“I don’t eat people either.”

“Good to know.”

Bruce snickered.

“You laugh at everything.”

“No,” said Bruce, utterly serious. “I don’t, actually. I rarely laugh at all.”

“Uh huh. You’ve laughed like every five minutes since I’ve known you.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, his face very still, something sad in his dark eyes. He smirked suddenly. “You amuse me. Like a pet monkey. A little monkey who throws his feces at the world.”

“I’ll show you some feces, motherfucker. Eat your humiliated slice so I can kick your ass.”

Bruce giggled with a mouthful of pizza like some stupid ten-year-old drawing dicks all over his notebook. It was then that Tony realized he loved him.

***

After defeating each other on various games, they fished debris out of the pool with the net and cleaned the filter—which was mysteriously clogged with a Taco Bell wrapper. They got stoned—poolside this time—and swam around the pool for a while. Bruce was too sore to swim much, though, and Tony felt kind of bad leaving him to hang out in the shallow end like a retard, so, after a while, they ended up sitting on the steps, partially in the water.

Tony stared up at the dusty blue sky. “If you can’t even fucking swim, you probably don’t feel like going out tonight, huh?”

“Not really. But I can drive. I can take you back to your place or drop you off where ever.”

Tony spread his arms out on the cement ledge, leaning back with a sigh. “I kinda thought, since you feel all weak and puny, we’d just stay here and game.”

“You sure? I told you, I’m fine driving.”

“Nah.” Tony kicked the water a little. “I’m tired. I feel like a stoner night in.”

“With me?”

Tony scoffed. “No with your mom—” He sat up suddenly. “Fuck, Benji! I didn’t mean—don’t get sick, okay?”

Bruce smiled. “It’s okay.” He shrugged. “I know you didn’t mean anything. It sucks more if I talk about it.”

“Good.” Tony rose from the water and began toweling off. “What are we gonna eat?”

Bruce followed him like a good little doggie. “We have pizza crusts. And some packets of hot sauce.” Bruce said this with complete seriousness. He continued to dry himself carefully. “You can have most of the packets and the crusts if you want. I’m good with a couple packets of hot sauce and a cigarette.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tony opened the sliding glass door. The air in the house chilled his wet skin. “You can’t really be this poor.”

Bruce, his towel draped over his head like a hood, grinned at him. “Money’s for cigarettes, pot and books. Those are necessities. Food is a luxury.”

“Biology and physiology, huh?” Tony sighed. “Fucking moron. You can shower first, Virginia Slims.”

Bruce gave a snitty little sniff. “Those are bitch cigarettes. I smoke Camels.”

“Well excuse me, Mr. Macho.”

“Camels,” said Bruce, “because I like five humps a day.”

“I’m about to beat the living shit out of you, dude.”

“I thought you might be into scat.” He was all snarky grin until Tony stared at him in horrorstricken silence. That little grin crumbled completely as the pause lengthened.

“How did you know?” Tony asked.

“I didn’t I—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to judge you.” He looked like he wanted to run and hide. “We all have our fetishes—and there’s nothing wrong with that. I never meant to suggest—”

Tony couldn’t bear to let it go on any longer. “Psyche!” he yelled. He howled as Bruce rolled his eyes and called him an asshole. “You’re a good friend, Benji,” Tony laughed. In a high voice nothing like Bruce’s he said, “I don’t judge you. There’s nothing wrong with playing with doody. Some of my best friends play with doody.”

“Assmunch.” Bruce grinned and disappeared. While Benji used all the fucking hot water, Tony found the big ass phone book and flipped around the restaurant section.

Benji was actually out pretty quickly. He wore more boxers from his collection of America’s Lamest Underwear—turtles this time, with top hats and monacles because somebody was a sick fucking bastard, and bore a gift for Tony. Purple and green paisley boxers. Classy. He threw them at Tony. “What are you doing?”

“Thanks, I guess,” said Tony. “Pizza again okay?”

Bruce sat down beside him. “Can we get pineapple on it?”

“You’re just going to pick off all of the Canadian bacon.”

“More for you.”

“I was thinking we’d get hamburger.”

Bruce squirmed a little.

Tony scowled at him. “You little bitch. You don’t eat beef, do you?”

“The way it’s produced is bad for the environment,” Bruce said in a small voice.

“I’m buying, dude. We can get whatever we want. We can find something your picky ass can eat.”

“You’re spending too much money on food.”

Tony laughed. “I have too much money. Wait—you’re not just picky are you? You’re a fucking vegetarian!”

“No.” Bruce looked out the window. “I just don’t eat pork or beef.”

Tony nodded and flipped the yellow page. “Okay. Let’s order Chinese. We’ll get some General Tso’s chicken and shrimp lo mein.”

Bruce was very quiet.

“I’m going to order now,” Tony stood up with the book, staring at Bruce, who didn’t say a word. “If I get this, you’re going to eat pizza crust and hot sauce, aren’t you?”

“Maybe some rice….”

Tony laughed. “You’re a closet vegetarian! That’s even lamer than a normal vegetarian! Fuck, Benji, have some balls, dude. Just say, I’m a stupid faggot-ass vegetarian. And I like to put gerbils up my butt.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an urban myth. I don’t think anyone actually does that to gerbils.”

“Say it.”

“No.” Suddenly Bruce wasn’t playful. He glared up at Tony.

Tony glared back and took a step closer. “I’m a fucking vegetarian. Say it!”

“Make me.” Bruce’s voice was cold and defiant.

Tony stared at Bruce for a second, then clocked him with the phone book. The spine caught him in the side of the head.

Bruce held his head between his hands. “Motherfucker! You fucking suck!”

“You gonna say it now?”

“Fuck you.” Bruce rubbed his head. “Fucking dick.”

“Don’t be a pussy. It’s just a phone book.”

“That thing probably weighs five pounds.”

“Pussy.”

“I’m not being a pussy. That fucking hurt. I saw stars.” He continued to rub his head. “I probably lost fifty I.Q. points just now.” He flashed a sideways smile at Tony. “But I’m still smarter than you.”

Tony grinned and attacked him. He honestly meant to just tickle Bruce, just to rough house with him a bit, but the next thing he knew Bruce was screaming beneath him. “MY FUCKING RIBS, SHITHEAD!” Tony stopped and sat on the couch beside Bruce. Bruce writhed away from him. “Asshole,” he said breathlessly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I forgot,” said Tony.

Bruce stared at him hatefully. “You’re a fucking super genius. You seriously want me to believe you just forgot?”

“I’m being honest. I forget shit like that. Peoples’ allergies, birthdays. I don’t know. I’m not good with those kinds of details.” He shrugged. “Even my friend’s bruised ribs.” That was about as close to an apology as he could get. He hoped Bruce accepted it.

Bruce stared at him with a strange, optimistic wariness, like a dog that’s used to being kicked but still wants attention. He seemed about to say something, but held silent.

“Do you wanna hit me?” said Tony. “Eye for an eye?”

“An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind,” Bruce said in a rough whisper.

“Gandhi.” Tony grinned. “You sure you know what nihilist means? Vegetarianism, Gandhi…seems like you’re something else. I’m pretty sure having fucked up hair isn’t the basis for a philosophy.”

Bruce was quiet. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile or rolls his eyes. He just sat there looking shy and hurt.

Tony sighed and went to the phone. He stared out the barred window at the pool. “Yeah, I’d like an order of Hunan Chicken. Steamed rice. And what are your vegetarian options?” He finished ordering and stopped in front of Bruce on his way to take a shower.

Bruce looked up at him. That fondness Tony enjoyed seeing in his eyes was back. Tony ruffled Bruce’s damp hair. “Hey, Mon Chi Chi.”

“Asshole.” But Bruce said it with brotherly affection.

Tony scratched the back of Bruce’s head, rubbing his hair the wrong way. “Good boy, Benji. Good boy.”

Bruce sighed. “You really can’t help being a dick, can you?”

Tony slowly kneaded the base of Bruce’s skull, letting his hand slide down Bruce’s neck and work its way back up. Bruce’s eyes closed. Tony could feel Bruce’s warm breath fluttering against his bare stomach.

He squeezed in rapid horse bites near Bruce’s shoulders. Bruce spazzed out, laughing, whining about his ribs and kicking Tony away. Tony backed off, laughing. “You’re girl crazy.”

“Who’s the retard?” Bruce shook his head. “Yeah, the whole gay thing’s just a cover so I can fit into society more easily.” He smiled. “Fucking jerk. Go shower before the food gets here. I’ll roll dessert.”

Tony started down the hallway, then stopped, hanging on the wall for a second.

Bruce spotted him. “Yeah?”

Tony drummed the wall thoughtfully. “Nothing.” He paused. “Roll a fattie.”

“On it, motherfucker.”

***

They crashed around three in the morning, but not before Bruce created the homo-shield and divided the bed. When Tony woke, it was still dark. Beside him, Bruce shook in his sleep. Tony wrapped him in the homo-shield and curled around him. He kissed the back of Bruce’s head, which smelled like peaches from the gash shampoo the gaywad used. “Veggie-head pinko fag,” Tony whispered.

***

_Three days later…nothing has changed except the boys’ underwear_

“Did you see that? That was wicked! I blew up that SS trooper with a grenade!” Tony, eyes fixed on the pixel world of the CRT, took a pull from the joint and handed it to Bruce. “That was fucking hilarious!”

Bruce, sprawled on the floor beside the chair amid little cartons of Chinese take-out, toked without lifting his head. “Hilarious,” he echoed, holding smoke.

Tony was pretty sure Bruce couldn’t see the screen from his vantage point, but he appreciated Bruce’s unwavering support. He looked down. Bruce gazed up at him. Bruce was stoned out of his gourd and stuffed with vegetable moo shu and Buddha’s delight. He smiled at Tony. “Why are you still here?” he asked softly.

“Are you ready for me to go?”

“No, but—you’re on vacation. Shouldn’t you be out doing things?”

“You’re on vacation.”

“Yeah, but I’m not you.”

Tony didn’t have an answer. Maybe he had stayed to make sure Bruce healed properly. Maybe it was because playing Castle Wolfenstein on Bruce’s shitty-ass computer all day was more fucking fun than it sounded. Maybe he had stayed because there was something restful about slumming it. Maybe it was because he didn’t think about Jordan in Bruce’s company. Or maybe because it was nice to have a friend who liked him for him instead of because he was Tony Stark.

“Because your sad-sack, shitty-ass, failed fudgepacker life makes me feel better about mine.”

Wonderfully, dependably, Bruce laughed, writhing on the floor amid the cartons and holding his side. “Good,” he managed finally, “somebody should get something out of it.” He sighed. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“To some fucking faggot bar? No.”

“No, just out. See a band or something.”

Tony looked down at him. “You have a fucked up temper. If you get in a fight right now, you’ll get killed.”

Bruce’s expression soured. “Me? I don’t look for fights. I rarely get in them anymore.”

“You did a few days ago.”

“I was trying to help _you_.” Even bitchier.

“And that worked out so well.” Another brilliant example of Stark sarcasm. With that verbal bitch slap, Tony returned to his game.

“I’d do it again,” said Bruce, painfully sincere. “I’d do it now.”

Tony glanced down at him, touched. “That’s fucking stupid.”

Bruce splayed a hand across his face, laughing gently. “You’re such a bastard.”

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“Some people would call that friendship,” said Bruce enunciating each word with stoned slowness.

“Some people are fucking idiots.”

***

As Bruce folded the bedspread into the homo-shield, Tony stopped him. “Don’t do that. We don’t need that.”

Bruce frowned. “I wish you had told me earlier that you needed a ride somewhere. I’m kind of tired now,” he said bitchily.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Tony sat on the bed. “You get cold almost every night and you wake my ass up and I have to cover you with it.”

“Oh,” Bruce said in a tight voice. He slipped beneath the blankets and lay with his back to Tony.

Tony got into bed as well and scooted next to Bruce. “Can you turn over or does it hurt too much?”

“It hurts.”

Tony scooted closer until his skin pressed against Bruce’s. Bruce’s skin was all goosebumps.

“Tony, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said in a strained voice.

Tony put an arm around Bruce’s waist, keeping low to avoid pressing against Bruce’s bruised ribs and careful not to touch the bruises on his stomach. “Relax,” he said. “We’re not doing anything. I’m just keeping you warm—like cowboys or survivalists. Like the Donner Party.”

“They ate each other.”

“Okay, without that part.” He could feel his breath ricochet off the back of Bruce’s neck to brush his van dyke with humid strokes. “We’re just two friends,” he whispered, “sharing body heat.”

“Two friends,” Bruce repeated. He held perfectly still.

“Yeah.” He rested his mouth against Bruce’s shoulder with a sigh.

“Okay.” Bruce relaxed, his body sinking closer to Tony’s.

Tony closed his eyes and enjoyed the comfort of this closeness. Bruce felt familiar and warm. After a few minutes, Tony whispered, “I probably seem like I have a lot of friends, you know, because I’m so cool and hot and I’m so super fucking intelligent, but I don’t have many good friends. Lots of people like me, but they don’t know anything about me. You wouldn't think it would suck being loaded and awesome, but...sometimes it does.”

Bruce didn’t say anything.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that it’s okay with me that you’re a nerd and an ass-clown. I’m cool with that. I didn’t have to stay here in your fucking roach motel eating shitty poor people food. I’m here because—I don’t know…. You don’t suck.” Only silence greeted his words. And then a small snore.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony stretched, enjoying the warm cement beneath his feet. “Another beautiful day. You gotta love California.”

Bruce, bare-faced without his stupid glasses, sat on the rim of the pool with his feet submerged on the top step. He looked pensive. “I wish it would rain.”

“Of course you do. Mr. Fucking Optimism.” He pointed at Bruce’s cigarette. “You’re probably looking forward to cancer too, huh?”

Bruce pulled on his cigarette and stared at the pool. He sighed smoke. “I miss rain, that’s all. I spent the past year in New Mexico. Now I’m here.” He shrugged. “I miss rain.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ohio. We had weather there. Seasons.”

“Yeah. Ohio is sooo much cooler than California. That’s why they make all those movies there, and people write songs about it, and all of the trends start there.”

Bruce took Tony’s mockery with a stoic half-smirk. “I don’t miss Ohio. I just miss rain.” He paused for a drag. “The way it sounded on the roof of a car; the way it felt on my skin, in my hair….” A melancholy note entered his voice at the end. He stared at the water and sighed.

Tony walked closer to Bruce. Bruce didn’t turn around. He continued to stare into the pool until the first drops fell on his face. “Better?” Tony asked, adjusting his aim slightly so his stream arced into Bruce’s hair.

Bruce just sat there, wet and blinking, as Tony continued to drench him. He didn’t move, he just held his cigarette away. “Are you done?” he asked when Tony’s arc sagged.

Tony shot a couple more rounds into Bruce’s face. “Nope.” He shook his cock dry. “Now I am.”

Bruce scrubbed a hand across his face. “That was great, Tony. You’re so fucking awesome.” His voice dripped sarcasm like his hair dripped urine. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Bruce stared at him with that strange, serial killer intensity. He didn’t blink as he sucked his cigarette slowly and blew it out in a quick huff. He looked oddly cool for a nerd soaked with urine.

“That was a California shower.”

Bruce snorted. “That sounds like a Beach Boys' song.”

“It’d be a good name for a cheap perfume.”

“Yeah, for girls who want to smell like your piss.”

“Hey, they’re out there. Lots of them.”

Bruce peeled off his shirt and began wringing it over the patch of ice plant near the pool. “I’ll bet.”

“Fuck, Bruce,” said Tony quietly. “Those bruises still look fucked up.”

Bruce held his shirt in one hand and looked down at himself. “They’re getting better; the colors are changing.” He turned a little to display his injured side. “The bruise over my ribs is looking better.”

“Yeah, but a couple of these on your stomach look like shit.” Tony crouched, sketching around a deep purple one high on Bruce’s stomach, with a fingertip. “This one isn’t black anymore, but it’s still fucking dark.”

“I think one of them had steel-toed boots.”

Tony was glad that one hadn’t kicked him in the head, but he felt bad that Bruce had been hurt. “Hey, what’s going on with that one?”

“Which one?”

Tony pointed under Bruce’s navel. “That one right—” He quickly drew his finger up Bruce’s body and flicked his nose. “Psyche!” He laughed at Bruce’s resigned face and gave his head a little cuff.

“Aw, and now you have your piss all over your hand.”

“Yeah. You wanna suck it?”

“Not your hand,” Bruce said breezily. He couldn’t quite pull it off, however, and blushed. He back-pedaled like a coked-up circus bear. “I didn’t mean that. It was joke.”

Tony howled. He laughed until he began to cry. He threw an arm around his nervous friend and laughed some more. “You were so close—but then you blushed like a fucking octopus. Octopussy! Holy shit, you’re a fucking dweeb!”

Bruce smirked. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m still here.”

Bruce slid out from under Tony’s arm and looked at him strangely, like Jane Goodall watching monkeys fuck. “I’m taking a shower now. Please find some way to amuse yourself that doesn’t involve shitting on the floor.” He started toward the sliding glass door.

“You’re going to be so sorry you said that.”

Before opening the door, Bruce turned around. “I feel fine. We’re going out tonight. I want to go to Scream.”

Tony shrugged. “Cool.”

Bruce grinned and went inside.

***

While Bruce was taking a shower, Tony snooped through the kitchen cabinets designated with sticky notes as belonging to Bruce’s other two roommates, Manaldo and Trisha—or as Tony liked to call them Pee-wee Herman and Siouxie Ate the Banshees. They were barely ever there—entering the house like phantoms with the late morning sun to change clothes and take off again. Tony thought this was just as well; it was like he and Bruce had their very own Inglewood bunghole-lo.

When he opened Trisha’s cabinet, he grinned. Jägermeister. Hurray for fat chicks with no self-esteem! This was probably her ‘of course you and your friend can do me up the butt’ tonic.

He had hoped the roommates—both of legal drinking age—had some alcohol in their stash. And here it was. He replaced the alcohol with a hundred dollar bill. Siouxie Ate the Banshees could buy a lot of Twinkies with that.

He drained his nasty-ass Mountain Dew and poured the Jäger up to the glass’ rim. He got a glass for Bruce and called him into the living room. “Hey, faggot-ass! Come look what I found!”

Bruce scowled out from his bedroom, toweling his stupid-ass hair. “I don’t answer to faggot-ass.”

“Faggot-face?”

“No.”

“Ass-clown?”

“No.” His frown held for now, but it was starting to break.

“Butt-pirate?”

Bruce giggled and buried his head in the towel. “I fucking hate you.” Grinning stupidly, he hiked the towel around his neck and joined Tony.

“Fucking Christ, man, is all of your underwear for retards?”

“Whad’ya mean? Frogs are cool. And they glow in the dark.”

Tony busted a gut. “No,” he gasped. “No, they do not. Tell me they do not!”

Bruce sank into the wretched pink arm chair near the ugly-ass couch where Tony sat. He looked like he was curled up in a big fat vagina. “Someone’s paying too much attention to my undies.”

“You flatter yourself.” Tony handed Bruce the glass of Jägermeister he had poured for him. “This will put some hair on your balls.”

Bruce took the glass with a mock frown. “They have hair. I shave them.” He started downing the glass as if it were a shooter.

Tony shuddered. “Just drink your drink and fuck off, Creepshow.”

Bruce, in the midst of gulping, snorted and sputter-laughed, writhing in the fat vagina chair. At some point, he must have hurt his ribs, because he yelped and sucked air, ceasing all movement. “Fuck,” he said softly and drained the last swallow of his drink. He put his glass on the rectangular brass and glass coffee table.

Tony felt a little shitty. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Bruce. It was just so much fun to make him laugh—and it was so easy. He poured more for both of them.

Holding his side, Bruce retrieved his glass with a sniffle. He grinned, flushed. “I was trying to be all manly, but I laughed some up my nose.”

Tony laughed. “Dude! It’s not coke, man. Don’t snort it.”

Bruce giggled and held his nose. “It burns.”

“You’re a massive dork, Benji.”

Bruce choked on his drink and chuckled.

“I mean, seriously, dude. Other dorks think you’re dorky.”

Bruce strained for gravity and flicked his damp forelock away from his face. “What are we drinking?”

“Jägermeister.”

“Is that German for roach spray?”

Tony beamed. “No. But it has a nice buzz. You’ll like it.”

“It was probably used in the concentration camps for delousing.”

“I think it tastes like cough syrup.”

Bruce rested his glass back on the coffee table. “Yes, but if you were making beverages and produced something that tasted like this, wouldn’t you go back to the drawing board?”

“I’m sorry it doesn’t taste like a wine cooler or whatever sorry shit you usually drink.”

“I don’t,” said Bruce, frowning a little. “Usually drink, that is. Alcoholic father, genetics, so on and so forth. But sometimes I do.” He squinted at his arm and flexed it experimentally. “My elbows feel…rubbery.”

Tony grinned. “Keep drinking. Your ribs will feel rubbery too. Are you seeing auras yet?”

“No. Are you?”

“No,” said Tony, pouring. “We need to drink more.”

Eventually, Bruce brought the cd player and a few cases of tapes and cd’s into the living room. They rifled through the cases and played different songs. Some of Bruce’s music didn’t completely suck. Some of it was absolute shit. But there was an interesting variety, at least. Tony was pleased to find Iron Maiden and Ozzy alongside Bruce’s faggier offerings like U2 and New Order. They both liked The Dead Kennedys, Pink Floyd, Dio and Ministry. They both hated country. But Bruce’s unreliable taste took something of a folky turn, at times. He kept trying to interest Tony in R.E.M. and XTC, two bands that didn’t really rock hard enough for Tony no matter how great Bruce insisted they were.

Tony sprawled on the floor near the cd player. They had killed the bottle. A tape of various Lou Reed songs played while Bruce, on the floor beside Tony, rolled one of his carefully-crafted little joints. Bruce lit it, then lay down with his head beside Tony’s. Their bodies faced opposite directions. They passed the joint back and forth.

As “A Perfect Day” began to play, Bruce looked at him furtively for a moment, then stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and sang along with the fifth stanza, “ _You made me forget myself/ I thought I was/ Someone else, someone good._ ” He turned to Tony. “You make me feel like that,” he said, tears starting in his eyes. “Like I’m someone else. Someone without a fucked up past. Someone almost cool.”

“I think you’re cool,” said Tony. “I think you’re way cool…for a retarded butt-pirate.”

Bruce huffed in bitter amusement, blowing smoke at the ceiling. “It’s more than that, though. It’s like the song says— _someone good_. When I’m with you, I can pretend I’m good.”

Tony frowned at him, but Bruce’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling. Bruce continued in a frail voice, “You got into college early because you’re a genius. I got in because I tried to bomb my high school. Everyone hated me—even the teachers. After a while, all I could feel was anger. I knew it was wrong, but I built a bomb anyway. Not a crude pipe bomb, but an intricate, beautiful little thing. I built it with the most glorious fury—I felt so powerful—balancing life and death in my hands. I felt like a god.” He paused as if waiting for Tony to say something.

Tony, for once, didn’t know what to say. His friend had basically just admitted to being a fucking terrorist; Tony couldn’t see him as anything but Bruce, a quiet boy who tried to defend someone he barely knew, who was easy company, who laughed at almost everything that came out of Tony’s mouth.

Bruce continued. “I defused it. There was a crossroad; I saw the right path. An epiphany. I was caught anyway, but I was glad for it. I felt so guilty for what I had almost done; I wanted to pay for it, to walk away clean and different. But instead of being punished, the government recruited me and fast-tracked my education.” He smiled bitterly. “They ‘saved’ me, because they want me to make bombs for _them_. New and improved nuclear bombs. That’s what the world needs, you know—more fucked up ways to destroy everything.”

Tony tried to say something, but Bruce was on a drunken babble.

“I keep telling myself it’s okay, because people suck and life is pointless and nothing really matters.” He heaved a breath. “But I know that’s not true. How can anyone listen to a song by Beethoven or The Smiths, or look at the Sistine Chapel or the Theory of Relativity, or watch a movie like _Brazil_ and not recognize humanity’s beauty, its grace, its potential? How can I turn my back on that?” A tear slid from the corner of his eye and disappeared into his hair. “’I am become Death,’ said Oppenheimer. I’m becoming Death. I’m the villain of my own life—and possibly everyone else’s.” He blinked away tears and turned to Tony with an expression of self-conscious horror. “I’m sorry. I—I think I’m really drunk.”

“Bruce,” Tony said softly. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not exactly good. My father is a weapons manufacturer. Someday, I’ll take over his corporation.” He stared at the ceiling. “The whole business revolves around creating bigger and better ways to kill—and to make as much money as possible doing it. My father tries to say what he’s doing is patriotic—like that justifies it. Like killing people in some corner of the world that isn’t yours is just fucking fine. Stark Industries doesn’t give a shit about security or freedom. It’s all about money. Lots and lots of fucking money.” He glanced at Bruce. “Hanging out with you makes me feel like someone else too. Like maybe I could just walk away. Do something different. Become someone different.”

“Couldn’t you?” There was nothing judgmental about the question. If anything, Bruce’s hushed voice was encouraging.

Tony stared at the ceiling, unable to make eye contact. “I like money. I’m used to living with it. With lots of it. This shithole—this is fun because I know I can leave it. I could never live like this. I need that corporation. I know that’s a lame excuse, but it’s the truth.” He swallowed the tears he refused to shed. “My father never loved me, and one day I’ll inherit his legacy of destruction, and I’ll continue it because…I can’t turn away from it.”

Bruce didn’t say anything.

Tony couldn’t look at him. He closed his eyes, feeling stupid for revealing so much. Bruce was being coerced into doing something he found appalling. Tony, it would seem, had a choice. How fucked up his plight must seem to someone like Bruce. Tony Stark. Poor little rich boy…. No one ever understood.

Tony tried to lighten the dark mood. He laughed, but it was short and brittle. “Hey, on the plus side, we might work together someday.” He turned to Bruce with the smirk that had always been his armor. What he saw surprised him. Perhaps it was just the alcohol, but he felt a strange warmth spread throughout his body.

Bruce stared at him with equal amounts of sympathy and sadness, as if he comprehended everything. The world seemed to pause for a moment. Somehow, Bruce remained unfrozen. He leaned in and kissed Tony softly on the neck.

Bruce scrambled up suddenly, stumbling backward over plastic cassettes and cd cases. “Please forgive me. That—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tony sat up. Bruce staggered into his bedroom and reemerged with his keys and wallet. He handed some money to Tony—as if Tony needed money. “Call a cab. Go do something fun with your buzz. I’m not used to drinking like this.” He wiped his eyes with rough swipes. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s like twelve-thirty in the afternoon.”

“I’m going to bed early.” He hid his face behind a hand. “I’ll leave my keys here. If you want to come back, you can take them and let yourself in.” Bruce rebounded off the walls to his bedroom and shut the door.

Tony called his car service.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains TWO acts of DUBIOUS CONSENT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains TWO acts of DUBIOUS CONSENT.

Tony shook Bruce awake. “Rise and shine, shithead.” He pressed a cold bottle of water into Bruce’s hand. “Alcohol dehydrates you, Dr. Physiology. If you don’t drink lots of water, you’re going to have a hangover from hell.”

Bruce sat up stiffly and drank his water. Tony sat at the end of the bed and drained his own bottle. “I put some more in the refrigerator.”

Bruce squinted at the alarm clock in bleary dismay. “I’ve slept for more than twenty-four hours. How can I still be this fucked up?”

Tony couldn’t help laughing. “I was only gone for about half an hour, moron. We needed water, and that shit coming out of the faucets here barely qualifies.” He put on Cocteau Twins’ _Victorialand_ , some sweet-sounding weird shit that he had noticed Bruce liked to play for sleeping. He smiled at Bruce’s confused but grateful expression.

Obviously, he hadn’t expected to see Tony again. Tony stripped down to his briefs and climbed in bed. “Lie down with me,” he said.

Bruce hesitated, then lay down beside him. He lay, as he usually did, on the side that wasn’t injured, his back to Tony. Tony wrapped an arm around him. “How do engineers do it?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce whispered. “How?”

“Until it hertz.”

Bruce didn’t laugh, but his back pressed a little closer to Tony. Tony lay silently as the afternoon sun slanted through the white sheers. Bruce’s body relaxed as he fell asleep. Tony remained awake, wondering. He pressed his lips against Bruce’s shoulder, tasting his skin delicately with his tongue. He kissed softly along Bruce’s neck, planting a misty kiss against the base of Bruce’s skull. Bruce reacted ever so slightly, his breath shifting after each kiss.

Tony pulled aside the sheet and smoothed a hand down Bruce’s side. It was a straight, slanting line, no curves. He stroked Bruce’s stomach. Lean, but slightly soft compared to Tony’s hard six-pack; it felt pleasant beneath his fingertips. He kept his touch light, mindful of the patchwork of bruises still covering Bruce’s torso.

Bruce gave sort of a breathy whimper and rolled toward Tony slightly. As Tony continued to stroke down Bruce’s stomach, he noticed the bulge in Bruce’s lame-ass frog boxers. He freed Bruce’s cock from its horrible frog prison. Bruce gave a soft moan, but didn’t wake.

Tony stroked Bruce’s hips and stomach. Benji’s cock grew like Clifford the Big Red Dog. Tony didn’t even have to touch it. He just teased around it.

Bruce’s hips shifted. He made a sweet, almost pained sound. Bizarrely, Tony’s stomach reacted to the sound with a burst of butterflies. He brushed the shaft of Bruce’s bobbing cock with his knuckles. Tony rubbed it with a slow upward stroke as if it were his own. It was strange playing with another man’s cock. He gently kneaded the glans, wringing a needy moan from Bruce.

Tony had been on the edge of arousal for a while. That sound pushed him over. His cock exploded out of his briefs. It wanted to play. Tony paused to remove his underwear, then resumed his inspection of Bruce’s cock. His and Bruce’s cocks were about the same size, although his was maybe a half inch longer and Bruce’s was slightly thicker. And Bruce did, in fact, shave his balls. That was weird.

Bruce made an anxious little noise and rolled onto his back. Tony stroked Bruce’s thigh and wondered if his nipples were sensitive. He liked sucking women’s nipples. He had even enjoyed playing with Sean’s. Sean had been quite ticklish, but apparently some guys had little nipple sensation at all. Tony’s were fairly sensitive. He gave one of Bruce’s nipples an experimental lick. It puckered instantly. He rolled his tongue around it. Bruce’s breath feathered in his throat; he definitely felt it. Tony closed his lips around the pink nub and sucked. He started gently, but soon was sucking hard, encouraging the little nipple to engorge with blood, swelling and aching.

Bruce woke with a small, yearning cry. He gasped when he saw Tony. “What are you doing?!”

Tony continued to suck Bruce’s nipple and began stroking Bruce’s frantic cock. Bruce watched him with eyes that turned from fearful to lusty. He writhed against Tony’s hand and combed his fingers through Tony’s long hair. He put both hands around Tony’s head and moved him to his other nipple. Tony wasn’t sure about this, but he liked Bruce’s squeal as he ground the new nipple between his front teeth.

As Tony teased Bruce’s nipple, Bruce played with Tony’s cock. The firmness of Bruce’s grip took Tony by surprise. There was something aggressive about the way Bruce handled Tony’s cock, the way he squeezed just a little too hard, the way he yanked it around and made Tony’s balls shake. Tony paused in his nipple-sucking as Bruce fluttered a pinky under the lip of his glans.

A shiver of pleasure ran through Tony’s body. He pulled Bruce’s hair and kissed his forehead. He turned his attention to Bruce’s cock. Meanwhile, he straddled Bruce’s chest, giving Bruce access to his cock. But it wasn’t Tony’s cock that caught Bruce’s attention. While Bruce continued to torment Tony’s cock with his hands, he licked around Tony’s rim.

Tony fondled Bruce’s shaven balls. His own needy groan surprised him. The rim jobs he’s had up until this point had been delicate things—cautious flickers of tongue tips. This was something else entirely. There was nothing hesitant about Bruce’s tongue. It massaged Tony’s hole with its generous width and breadth. It explored and plundered his depths with the determined zeal of a conquistador.

Bruce didn’t even seem to be bothered that Tony had completely forgotten about him. Tony held himself stiffly over Bruce’s prone body, moaning softly as he rocked back and forth while Bruce’s tongue probed his hole.

Suddenly, Tony noticed Bruce’s cock twitch, and remembered what he had been doing. Tony had never sucked a man’s cock before. It was very different from Sean’s pink Lil’ Smokie.

But Tony felt quite skilled at cunnilingus. Because he was such a gash magnet, he usually dated older, more experienced babes, and felt he had a good technique—flick the clit with the tongue tip for a while, lash around the vaginal opening, a few more hard flicks, then wrap the lips around the clit and suck and suck. After repeating this a few times, he usually had most bitches begging him to do anything he wanted. But what did one do with a cock?

He clasped the flare of the glans between his lips and pulled slightly. Bruce writhed wantonly. Tony’s hole vibrated as Bruce moaned. Tony enjoyed the sensation and decided to make Bruce moan some more. Happily, making Bruce moan was almost as easy as making him laugh. He moaned when Tony sucked his naked, swollen balls. He moaned when Tony nibbled his pulsing shaft. And he especially moaned whenever Tony played with his glans.

Tony decided to tease him, flirting with the glans’ sensitive frills but refusing to take the whole thing in his mouth. Tormented, Bruce made little frustrated cries and began to wriggle and buck. He continued, however with his generous rim job, rubbing Tony’s balls and tugging his cock all the while. Finally, Tony flopped down beside Bruce. “Do you want to suck me?” he asked.

Bruce grinned. His eyes were huge and bright with enthusiasm. “Do you like bondage?”

“Yeah,” said Tony, although he wasn’t really sure what he would do with Bruce once he was bound.

With surprising speed, Bruce pulled a handcuff from behind the brass headboard and snapped it around Tony’s wrist. Tony laughed. This wasn’t what he had expected. He let Bruce cuff his other wrist. Now, he lay on his stomach. Bruce resumed his rimming. Did the guy ever get sick of giving rim jobs?

Tony closed his eyes as Bruce sucked his hole and kneaded his ass cheeks. He felt very good, very relaxed. The mattress creaked, and Bruce seemed to disappear for a moment. The music changed. Some violent-sounding industrial music began to play. “What’s this shit?” Tony asked when the bounce of the mattress announced Bruce’s return.

“Skinny Puppy.”

Before Tony could tell Bruce how lame they were, Bruce stopped his mouth with a hard ball of rubber and fastened it around his head. Tony protested around the ball gag and struggled against the chains. The metal on metal clang of the chains against the brass headboard barely registered against the music.

Bruce pulled Tony’s hair aside and kissed the nape of his neck. He stroked down Tony’s spine lovingly. Tony relaxed. Benji was a sweet guy. He was just a little weird.

Bruce kissed the small of Tony’s back, then mouthed one of his hipbones. He pushed Tony a little on his side, pulled his cock out, and sucked it. There was nothing stingy about the blow job. Bruce took the cock deeper than Tony expected. It might have been deeper than Bruce expected too, for he coughed slightly.

Tony laughed around his ball gag. He had too much cock for Bruce!

Apparently thwarted, Bruce gave up sucking cock and sucked Tony’s ass instead. This was fine with Tony, because Bruce gave fucking excellent rim jobs. If the Olympics had a rim job competition, he thought Bruce might be a contender. He was just thinking that it would be nice to be a judge in such a competition, when the rimming stopped.

And then, Tony felt something cold. On his hole.

Two fingers invaded Tony’s hole. Tony tried to squeeze them out. Bruce swatted Tony’s butt and wiggled the fingers around. Tony bore down hard. Bruce spanked the holy crap out of Tony’s ass. Tony got his knees under him and pulled hard against the chains. The fucking bed was made by aliens or something, because it wouldn’t budge.

Bruce knelt close to Tony’s head and tucked his hair behind his ear. “You’re my first brat!” he said excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to be with one—but you’re my first! You’re being very good. But I’ll act like you’re being bad. I just wanted to thank you. Thank you!” He gave Tony’s cheek a quick peck and was gone.

Bruce attacked Tony’s hole with renewed vigor. He poked, pushed, and prodded. He succeeded in stretching it a little. So, naturally, he plunged his cock in deep. Bruce, thoughtful little dork that he was, had taken the time to wear a condom. Tony had always thought it was funny when women bitched about condoms hurting them since he, having his sensation dampened, had the worst of it. Bitches love to bitch. But he could feel the condom’s hard, rubber ring dig into his tender flesh every time the cock stabbed into him. Not only did the ring hurt, it signaled that the fucking cock was only about half way in.

Tony thrashed about, trying to get Bruce off him. Bruce kept up and sank deeper. The mattress shrieked beneath them and the headboard slammed against the wall. Bruce grabbed a handful of Tony’s long hair. He thrust slowly, hard and deep, while pulling Tony’s rocker mane. He growled a little and tugged Tony’s head from side to side.

Bruce set Tony’s beautiful hair free. And then he started pounding Tony’s ass at breakneck speed. Sensations overloaded Tony’s body. The cock punching inside him. The explosions of pleasure from his prostate. The shredding friction of the condom’s top. The sting of Bruce’s balls slapping against his. The wild rocking of the bed. The smack, smack, smack of flesh against flesh—his ass being spanked by Bruce’s hips.

Suddenly, Tony felt Bruce lean over his back. An arm snaked around his neck in a sleeper hold. Bruce fucked Tony while choking him. Somehow it was awful, but somehow it was kinda hot. Tony’s vision kept wobbling and graying when Bruce’s hold tightened, strangling him. But then everything would come rushing back.

The entire time, his prostate sang like a tuning fork, sending pleasure racing through every corner of his body. When his breath was blocked, however, the intensity of the sensations tripled. He began to look forward to the choking, his entire body shuddering with ecstasy.

He moaned needily when Bruce slid backward, abandoning Tony’s throat. But then he felt his glans being pulled, felt Bruce’s fingers—slick with precum—sliding back and forth over the sensitive, petal-soft bulb of his engorged, throbbing cock. He moaned and moaned as his pleasure grew, waves of bliss from his prostate, the rising sun from his glans. And then everything exploded. He bit down on the rubber ball and shook all over. He came and came and came, shooting an endless frothy load onto the shrieking bed while Bruce continued to plow the shit out of him.

The bed collapsed beneath them. Bruce giggled like a complete dork and came too.

Tony, still attached to the headboard, tried to free himself, but to no avail. Bruce patted Tony’s head and freed one of his hands. He kissed Tony’s wrist and stared lovingly into Tony’s eyes as he unbuckled the gag.

No sooner was the rubber ball out of Tony’s mouth, then Bruce’s tongue was in it. Bruce petted and stroked him and kissed him passionately. The sex had been awkward and rough, but physically enjoyable. All of this other stuff Bruce was doing was far too intimate. Everything felt wrong. The masculine odor of shaving cream turned Tony’s stomach.

He caught Bruce around the neck with his free hand, peeled him off, and forced him down on the mattress. He held Bruce down and squeezed his neck angrily.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony glared at Bruce and kept a firm grip on his neck. He could feel Bruce swallow beneath his hand. Bruce stared up at him with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?” he choked.

“What’s wrong?!” Tony pressed down on Bruce’s throat. “Oh, I don’t know! You practically fucking raped me for one!”

Bruce couldn’t have looked more surprised. “You said you were into bondage.”

“But not when _I’m_ bound, Ted Bundy.”

“Wait, _you_ wanted to be on top? That doesn’t make sense. You’ve been giving me the Brat Signal almost nonstop.”

“I’ve been doing what?”

“In BDSM, brats are submissives who like to be conquered. They—”

“How can you take something as cool as BDSM and make it sound like D&D?” Tony came off Bruce’s throat just long enough to smack him across the face. He resumed his grip on Bruce’s neck. “Continue, Lord Dufus.”

Bruce looked quite annoyed. “Brats incite their dominant partner to punish them.”

“Wait, wait, wait. First off, you think you’re the dominant one?”

“Yes. I’m a top. And, obviously, you’re a brat.”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah. The way you’re constantly teasing and mocking me, how you pissed in my face—you woke me up tugging on my dick for fuck’s sake!”

Tony let up on Bruce’s throat a little. “Bruce, no. I’m not a brat. I’m just a dick. I wasn’t trying to ‘incite you to punish me’—I just like fucking with you.”

“You pissed on me. That was overtly sexual.”

“Only in your warped mind.”

Bruce glared up at him. “So what was it to you?”

“I made it rain.”

Bruce blinked slowly, processing. “That’s kind of fucked up,” he said softly. He met Tony’s gaze again with a spark of recognition. “But that means—” Horror blanched his face. “I’m so sorry. I—I’m so sorry. You must think— Oh god! I would never—I’m not like that. I hate rapists! I hate people who take advantage—I’m so sorry!” He reached for the cuff he had removed from Tony. “Me—” He stared at Tony wildly. “You can do me.”

Tony squeezed Bruce’s neck a little harder. “I’m no fudgepacker. And it still wouldn’t be the same, would it?”

“No, I guess not…. But you could hurt me. You could do whatever you want. Anything. I won’t enjoy it. I don’t even like being bound. I don’t like being hurt. It’ll suck and—please do something.”

Tony relaxed his grip a little. Bruce seemed on the verge of being hysterical, and it made Tony nervous. “Stop freaking out. It’s okay.” He shrugged. “I kinda liked it. I never wanna fucking do it again, but once was fun.”

“Let me make it up to you,” said Bruce, eyes desperate and soft. “I can be gentle.” He reached up and stroked Tony’s hair away from his face.

“Bruce. I’m not gay.”

Bruce stared up at him with fathomless eyes, his face still. “At what point,” he asked quietly, “did you realize that?”

“It wasn’t the sex,” said Tony, feeling oddly sorry for him suddenly. “The gag and fucking—not really my thing, but it felt good eventually. It was the kissing and shit. It was just too much.”

“I see.” Bruce’s demeanor was cold, analytical, as if Tony weren’t clutching his throat, as if none of this had happened, and he were in a lab coat watching voles fuck in another room. “That’s interesting because it’s just the opposite for me with girls. I like the kissing, the touching…. It’s when we get to the dickless pussy part that I get all lost and limp.”

Despite Bruce’s staid, confessional tone, Tony forgot he was angry and almost laughed.

“Fuck…. You’re not a brat.” Bruce closed his eyes. “And you’re also not gay. You’re not a brat…and you’re not gay….” He stared up at Tony. He was quiet for a moment, then said politely, “You should beat me up. That might help.”

“What?” Despite Tony’s hold on Bruce’s throat, it had never occurred to him to actually hurt Bruce.

“I think I have ‘bi-curious? gay? find out here’ written across my forehead. Apparently, a failed gay experience is best followed by beating up the guy you just had sex with.”

Tony laughed. “Yeah? Did you pull this shit with those guys?”

Bruce looked confused until Tony rattled his still-bound wrist. “No.” His answer bordered on offended. “Things like that are for special people.” He met Tony’s gaze with a blush. His eyes glassed over. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I thought you were a brat. Subs are everywhere. Brats are rare and—I thought you were a god particle.” Bruce lay still and quiet.

“Maybe I _should_ hit you. You kind of deserve it.”

“This time, I think I that’s true.” He looked at Tony with complete despair. “Do whatever you need to do. I won’t resist.”

“Yeah. Okay. I think a few gut punches should square things up.”

Bruce leaned over to undo the other cuff. Afterward, he moved back to his former position and lay very still beneath Tony. He directed his gaze to the ceiling. Tony ran a hand over Bruce’s body. It was entirely relaxed.

“Dude, you’re going to want to flex for this.”

“No.”

Tony laughed. “It’s gonna hurt, man.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?"

“Yeah. That’s the point.” Bruce’s torso was still mottled with bruises from the skinheads. Tony stroked one of the dark ones Bruce believed had resulted from a steel-toed boot.

He thumped the bruise with a finger. Bruce grimaced for a second, but remained relaxed and still, enabling a blow to do maximum damage. Impressed, Tony caressed Bruce throat to groin. He found it kind of cool that Bruce, who had some ass-brained notion that he was sexually dominant, would prostrate himself like this.

“Close your eyes,” Tony ordered. “I can’t do this with you watching me.”

“I’m not watching.”

“Close. Your. Eyes.”

Bruce’s eyes shut. Tony licked his index finger, jabbed it into Bruce’s bellybutton, then swept it up to Bruce’s nose. “Psyche! Fucking Butt-Pirate!!!” He laughed and flopped over on his back beside his friend. Lucky Fuckin’ Bruce. Tony stretched and popped his neck. “Damn, I came buckets.” He snorted. “You called dibs on the wet spot, Top Gun.” With a contented sigh, he turned his back to Bruce. “Hey, Mon Chi Chi, if you wanna give me a backrub or something, be my guest.”

Bruce didn’t touch him because Bruce was a selfish asshole with no fucking manners. Whatever. Tony catnapped in the warm sunlight pouring through the white sheers. He shifted in and out of sleep for maybe half an hour before deciding he would rather be awake. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling on the grounded bed. “You feel like smoking a roach and taking a swim?” He looked over and found Bruce, also staring at the ceiling, crying silently, tears leaking down his face. That was okay. He knew how to fix that.

“Hey, Benji. You get kinda weepy after sex because you have a vagina?” To Tony’s amazement, Bruce didn’t even crack a smile. Tony rolled over toward him. “Maybe I have a vagina too. If I tell you something—something I’ve never confessed to another living soul—will you promise not to make fun of me?”

Bruce stared at him tearfully and nodded.

“If I don’t cuddle after sex, I get depressed.” He waited, but Bruce didn’t say anything. “Would you snuggle with me a little? Just, you know, a platonic man cuddle?”

Bruce sniffled and hugged him a bit reluctantly. Tony rolled onto his back and pulled Bruce over his chest. Bruce continued to cry quietly, wetting Tony’s chest with tears. Tony held him close. This was as bad as being with a girl. He rested his face against Bruce’s head. “Bruce. I’m sorry I’m not gay, man. I really fucking like you. And I’m not saying that like when I say that shit to bitches—I actually mean it.”

Bruce choked a little. “I don’t care that you aren’t gay. It’s—” His shoulders shook. “I don’t know how to make this right. I’m so sorry. Oh fuck.” He heaved a sob and burrowed his face against Tony’s chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shit happens.” Tony rubbed Bruce’s shoulders. “I mean, I can see where you got your wires crossed.” He paused. “Maybe I even helped cross them. I dunno.” He chuckled. “It’s been a weird few days, man. I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

But Bruce said in a sad little voice, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Me too,” said Tony. “But enough with the bullshit tears. Why don’t we get stoned, break down the small appliances and make robots?” He sighed when Bruce continued to cry. He pulled Bruce’s hair. “Everything’s okay now. Why are you being such a drippy crybaby?”

Bruce, face buried in Tony’s chest, swallowed hard. “I violated you. I’ve become an evil I despise—I’m not sure I can talk about this without getting sick.”

Tony’s genius snapped the pieces together like Legos. “Your dad fucked you?” he asked, blunt and incredulous. He tightened his hold when Bruce began to shiver.

“I’m just like him.” Bruce’s voice was thick with tears. “I’m evil. I’m so evil. Just when I think I know the extent of it, there’s more.”

“Shut up.” Tony ground Bruce’s wet face against his chest. “This isn’t a comic book. No one’s evil.” He sighed as Bruce restrained a sob. “Except your dad, maybe. He sounds pretty fucking evil.” He let Bruce cry for a few minutes, then kneaded the back of Bruce’s neck. “Stop being such a goddamned pussy and listen to me.”

Bruce held his breath.

“We suck, okay? Both of us. We fucking suck.” He scratched the nape of Bruce’s neck fondly. “But we’re not our fucked-up fathers—and we’ll never fucking be them.”

Bruce hugged him tightly. Tony held Bruce’s head against his chest with both hands. They stayed like that for what seemed a long time. Finally, Tony kissed the top of Bruce’s head. “I think this is about all the snuggle time I can take,” said Tony. “So dry up. Those robots aren’t going to build themselves.”

Bruce sat up, blinking. “We could arm them with crude bombs made from cleaning and hair care products.”

Tony laughed. “Wait ‘til you see what I can do with a toaster oven and an alarm clock.”

***

_A few hours later…an alarm clock, toaster oven, blender, hand vacuum and microwave have met grizzly ends._

Tony and Bruce stood by the pool watching yellow smoke billow from the open barred windows. Bruce scratched his chin. “There goes the security deposit.”

“I don’t know,” said Tony. “I think they should pay you—we killed all of the cockroaches.” He smiled as Bruce stared at the cement and snickered.

Bruce looked at him with gentle eyes. “Thanks,” he said softly. “I should probably take you to your hotel or whatever now.”

Tony frowned at him. “You’ve had your way with me, and now you can’t wait to get rid of me, huh?” He couldn’t hold out for more than two seconds—Bruce’s uneasy expression was too much. He laughed his ass off. He tapered off as he realized Bruce wasn’t joining him. He frowned for real this time. “I thought we’d hang out some more.”

Bruce looked at him stupidly. “Really?”

“Could you say that again, but throw just a touch more dork in it this time?” Tony sat down backwards in one of the cheap plastic pool chairs. “I thought we were okay.”

Bruce looked down at his feet. “Yeah, I just didn’t think you’d want to be around me much longer.”

Tony nodded. “Oh. Right. That kind of okay. Like where we never fucking see each other again.” He drummed the back of the chair. “I’ve had some of those. Oh, yeah.” He sighed. “Look, Benji. It’s like this. You can probably count your good friends on one asshole. Am I right?”

Bruce snickered and glanced up at him. “Possibly.”

“Yeah, I’m fucking right. And I, for some fucked up inexplicable reason, like hanging out with your mangy Benji ass.” He caught Bruce’s gaze then and held it. “Can you be around me without wanting to fuck me?”

“Definitely. I like you best as a friend.”

“You said that way too fast. Don’t act like you weren’t hot for me.”

“I was, but—” Bruce stared sadly into Tony’s eyes. “You’re very attractive. So are lots of guys. I’m seventeen—I’m hot for everybody. I can walk a block and see fifty guys I want to fuck right there. What made this different is I thought you were hot for me.”

“And you thought that because I was fucking with you.”

“Yeah.” Bruce folded to the cement in front of Tony. “I’m a sexual sadist. It’s hard because—the things I like—the things I want to do—they feel wrong. They are wrong unless they’re in the right context, but sometimes they feel wrong even then.” He raked the cement with his short nails. “Subs like having things done to them, and that’s great, but brats challenge you and act like such jerks that punishing them seems okay.” He glanced up at Tony self-consciously. “That sounds fucked up, but when the chemistry’s right, it’s not.”

“So,” said Tony, clasping his hands around the back of the chair. “If I fuck with you now, you won’t get turned on, because you’ll know I’m not flirting with you.”

“Exactly. Just like when you fuck with me, I know you’re not bullying me. I know you’re just playing.”

Tony reached out to muss Bruce’s hair. “So why did you think I was brat-flirting or whatever anyway? Why didn’t you think it was all play?”

Bruce bit his lower lip. “I guess because there was so much of it—and the pissing and the spooning—” He sighed. “I don’t mean to blame you. You were trying to figure things out. I understand. That’s rough.”

“That’s what?”

“Rough.”

Tony somehow managed to keep a straight face. “What?”

“Rough,” Bruce said flatly.

Tony patted Bruce’s head. “Good Benji. Good boy.”

“That isn’t really quite as charming as it was when I thought you wanted me.”

Tony held out his hand, palm up. “Shake?”

Bruce sighed a laugh. “Sure.”

“So, motherfucker, now what do we do?”

Bruce stretched an arm over his head. “I dunno. I need a cigarette—I’m kinda hungry.”

In a singsong voice, Tony said, “One of these things is not like the others….” He frowned at Bruce. “You realize that doesn’t make sense, right?”

“It makes perfect sense. Nicotine’s an appetite suppressant.”

“Yeah, so is fucking eating.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, dickmunch, let’s eat out. Do you like Indian food?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Look for Stan Lee in this chapter.

_Sometime after mutilating small appliances_  
_Bombay, India (Bombay didn’t become Mumbai until 1996.)_

Tony smirked. The only problem with eating outside was that Bruce barely touched his food. He was such a tourist. His head swung around constantly, his face awestruck. Tony hit the table, bouncing their plates. “Eat your fucking food, nerdface.”

“Everything’s so beautiful. There’s so much to see. It’s such a jumble of colors, sounds and odors.” He drew a deep breath, as if he could somehow pull India into his being. “A person could get lost here. Just fade into the noise and disappear.”

“You know,” said Tony, “I’ve been thinking about that shit with the bondage—” He was almost sorry he’d said anything because Bruce’s face immediately drained of all joy. “Bruce, not like that. Look, what I meant was, you screwed up because you didn’t read the fucking manual.”

Bruce stared nervously at the street. “Yeah,” he said in a thin voice.

“Dude. Stop looking like I just kicked you in the nads.”

Bruce faced him and pulled out a cigarette. His gaze sank to the table as he opened his mouth—

“DON’T say you’re sorry.” Tony frowned. “Listen to me. You don’t have a manual, do you?”

Bruce lit his cigarette. “No. I’m not sure there is one. Most of the stuff I know, it comes from pornos or magazines.” His embarrassment fell away as he recognized Tony’s point. “That’s like trying to learn about science from watching _Star Trek_ and reading _Fangoria_.”

“Exactly.” Tony grinned. “So, I was thinking we’d go find you some better study materials.”

“Tony, I’m interested, and I—you’re very important to me, but I don’t want to be your ‘project’ friend. I don’t need a Daddy Warbucks.”

Tony shrugged. “Okay. I just thought that—whenever you finally finished eating—we’d head to Amsterdam and try to find some books and videos about BDSM.”

“Amsterdam?” Even Bruce’s cigarette just got a boner.

Tony grinned. “I thought you’d look cute in a little red dress, Annie.”

“Fuck you,” Bruce said fondly, ashing.

“You’ll love the fuck out of Amsterdam.”

Bruce shuddered suddenly. “Your fucking jet.”

“You didn’t enjoy my modified SR-71?”

“I don’t care for flying at all, really. And that thing—”

“We got here in under two hours.” Tony laughed. “Green’s a good color on you.”

“It might be a good color in your jet too, if I can remove my oxygen mask in time.”

Tony smirked. “We’ll leave the SR-71 here. I got a private Concorde for graduation. We’ll use it.”

Bruce sucked his cigarette unhappily. “It’s still a plane.”

“It’s not like the military jet. It’s luxurious. You won’t feel sick.”

“What about a donkey cart? That could be fun.”

“It has a hot tub.”

Bruce fixed wide eyes on him. “Yeah?”

Tony grinned. “Yeah.”

***

Tony snuck up beside Bruce, who sat with his eyes closed and his head back on the edge of the hot tub. Tony poured nearly half a bottle of ice-cold Dom Perignon over Bruce’s head. Once Bruce had stopped spazzing out, Tony handed him the remainder of the bottle. They laughed and drank, bubbles all around.

Bruce grinned at him. “What the fuck were you doing in my L.A. shithole all this time?”

A number of dickish comebacks filled Tony’s head, but perhaps the champagne and the hot, churning water had mellowed him. “I wanted to be someone else for a while.” He looked away. “That shit I told you about with Jordan.…”

“Fucking snatch,” growled Bruce. “You deserve better. The world’s full of women.”

Tony looked down at the water. “I kind of thought you were better. It seemed like it made sense. We have so much in common…. I haven’t felt this close to someone since Sean—the friend I told you about.” He made himself look Bruce in the eye. “Some of that stuff you thought was happening between us—you didn’t imagine it. I wanted to be gay for you. I really did. But I’m not. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not really a choice. You were just experimenting.” Bruce smiled. “I like being friends with you. I don’t need you to be gay.”

“I’m sorry, Benji.” The champagne seemed to be hitting Tony rather hard. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m okay,” said Bruce. “Whenever I’m trying to be in a relationship with someone, it always feels wrong. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I keep thinking someone’s out there. Someone just for me. When we meet, everything will align, everything will fit—like a Theory of Everything.”

Tony snorted. “The One. You’re looking for The One.”

“Yeah.”

Tony ran a hand through the frothing water. He played with it, letting it roll through his fingers, bouncing his palm over the swell. “Sometimes…I guess I want something like that. It’s always so hard. There’s so much drama. Head games. Bullshit. It’s never just…easy.” He shrugged. “If you had nice set of tits and a vagina….”

“I would look appalling.” Bruce laughed. “But thanks. I think.” He smiled with Benji sweetness. “There’s some girl out there like that. Someone who’ll be a good friend, but also have the requisite tits and vagina.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Tony, taking a big swallow of champagne.

“Me neither,” said Bruce.

***

_Amsterdam, The Netherlands_

Even after they had found some promising materials, Bruce seemed to want to spend all day looking at sex shops. Tony thought it was high time they visit a hash bar. He walked up behind his friend. “What are you getting into over here?”

“They have rubber asses,” Bruce said in an excited whisper. He had whispered the entire time they had been in the store. He displayed one to Tony. “Rubber fucking asses.”

A man with crazy gray hair and a mustache walked up to them. He was holding a giant black fist with a suction cup at one end. He smiled at Bruce and said in distinctly American English, “Good choice, son.”

***

As they sat on the jet, hash smoke clinging to their hair and clothing, Bruce carefully set his black shopping bag on the chair beside him.

Although Tony didn’t really want to know the answer, he had to ask. “What the fuck are you going to do with a rubber ass?”

“Hug it and pet it and call it George?”

Tony laughed so hard he began to roll around on the couch. Bruce’s face turned completely red. He laughed too. They filled the sleekly appointed black and brass cabin with the sounds of male friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the wonderful and astute mandarino for kindly correcting my location of Amsterdam. (My dumb American ass only learns geography when we bomb something.)


	9. Chapter 9

Tony and Bruce spent the rest of the summer parasailing in Greece, backpacking in the Amazon, and visiting every hash bar and sex shop in Amsterdam—although, eventually, Tony forbid Bruce from buying anything there because going through customs with him had become increasingly embarrassing.

They listened to industrial music in West Berlin and visited the Berlin Wall. Tony slept with a beautiful fraulein and her sister, and Bruce bought a tape of German noise that consisted mostly of something that sounded like a sheet of metal being waved and lots of moaning. Wherever they went, they had fun.

But then, the fall semester drew near, and Tony needed to leave for Boston, and Bruce needed to go to Pasadena. Tony returned with Bruce to the bunghole-lo in Inglewood to help him pack his shit into his crappy Datsun. As Tony stripped Bruce’s gaywad posters off the walls, he felt increasingly sad.

Bruce, cramming his stupid underwear into his duffle bag, turned to Tony suddenly and said, “I have to tell you something.”

Tony rolled up the posters. “Yeah?”

Bruce’s face was grim. “I’m not good with friendships, and I’m worse with distances. I don’t know why. It’s not that I don’t value them. I just…I get so involved in whatever I’m doing at the moment.”

“Yeah, like beating off and getting high.” Tony jerked the air as he spoke. “And beating off and….”

“Your wrist action is incredible. Stunning, really."

“You like that, huh?”

“Truly impressive.”

“Your sarcasm is so deadpan sometimes.”

Bruce seemed surprised. “Sarcasm? No. That wasn’t—no, not this time, anyway.” He rubbed his forehead. “I had a point. What happened to it?”

Tony wapped him on the head a few times with the rolled up posters. He thought Bruce would stop him, but since he didn’t, Tony hit him more.

Finally, Bruce grabbed the poster roll and held it still. “What the fuck?”

“I’m trying to bring back your point.” They grinned at each other. “I’m actually going to miss this,” said Tony, laughing.

Bruce grew quiet. “That’s what I was trying to say…. My cousin Jen is more important to me than almost any person in the world. Since I’ve been away at college I’ve written her once. And that was a postcard. Do you understand? She means so much to me, and I didn’t even send her cards for her birthday or Christmas.”

Tony huffed. “I’m worse. I don’t even remember when people’s birthdays are. It’s like my brain stores information like that in some part designated for irrelevant data. Your birthday, known allergies, pet’s name, next of kin, blood type—unless it’s O negative or the same as mine—then I might remember it.”

Bruce looked lost and miserable. He missed his cue entirely.

Tony poked him in the chest with the roll of posters. “That was funny.”

Bruce blinked at him. “Yes. Right. Because you’re a self-serving prick. Tony, do you hear what we’re saying?” He smiled bravely, his eyes as sad as any Tony had ever seen. “This is it. We’ll never see each other again.”

“Fuck,” said Tony. “They can see your twat from space. Right now, the astronauts in the space shuttle are all, ‘Dude! Look it! That’s Bruce’s twat.’”

Bruce’s silly mouth turned up at one corner and he gave an amused snort.

“We’ll see each other, you dufus.”

Bruce frowned. “I don’t think—”

“Yeah, twenty years from now when we’re picking up our Nobel prizes.”

“Of course.” Bruce smiled. “I can see that. You’ll be there with a harem of Playboy bunnies and supermodels, some disgustingly over-priced cigar jutting out of the corner of your mouth.”

“And you’ll be wearing flip flops because you’ll be a hippie—”

“I hate hippies—”

“Dude, all the ganga you smoke and that folky ass music—”

“I like lots of music—”

“Yeah, you’ll be there in fucking flip flops with a big ole bong—” Bruce had begun to giggle. Tony loved him. “And on your arm will be The One.”

Bruce went silent, his eyes deep wells of appreciation.

“Mr. God Particle will be as dorky as you. And I’ll have to pretend I don’t know you so you don’t get your faggy-ass dork cooties on me and my bitches.”

Instead of laughing, Bruce just grinned at him. They finished packing, smoked a joint, and fixed the bed. Tony sat on the bed while Bruce searched beneath the furniture to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. “Lie down with me?” asked Tony, taking off his shoes.

“Platonic farewell cuddle?”

Tony shrugged.

Bruce crawled into bed and lay on his side. Tony curled around him and sighed. “It’s fucked up how much I like this.”

“It’s not that fucked up. I like it too.”

“Normal guys don’t do this.”

Bruce shook in amusement. “We aren’t normal guys. Seriously, when have you ever been a normal guy?”

Tony grunted in agreement. He didn’t want to talk anymore. Bruce sighed and relaxed against him. They lay still for a time, breathing gently in the afternoon sun that glowed through the white sheers. Tony, with his arm wrapped around Bruce’s chest, could feel the other boy’s heartbeat. “You should go to MIT. If the government gives you a hard time, I can pay for it—I still get an allowance.”

“CalTech has a better nuclear science program. Thanks, though.”

“Boston has rain, faggot. Real seasons. Have you ever seen a New England autumn?” He knew Bruce liked shit like that. Benji ogled trees as if they were naked body builders.

“As long as I focus on what they want, I can pursue my other academic interests.” Bruce gave a confessional sigh. “And I would be lying if I said I didn’t love nuclear physics. You’re better off at MIT; I’m better off at CalTech.”

“Fuck. I didn’t think I was lonely,” said Tony, “but…I don’t know. I like having you around.”

“Same here. Well, except I knew I was lonely.” He was quiet for a second, then said, “I know this sounds fucked up, but I’m not just going to miss you. I’ll miss who I am with you. I can’t…relax around other people.”

Tony rubbed Bruce’s chest and stomach absently, pulling his tee shirt back and forth. “Yeah, I always keep my guard up. You have to. People are so illogical, so messy. I’ve always preferred machines, code, tech. Science is easy. People are hard.”

“That’s true,” said Bruce sleepily. “People are complicated.”

“People suck. I’m always wishing I could delete their program or rewire them or something.”

Bruce snickered. “Yeah.” After a pause, he looked over his shoulder. “It makes sense, though. Your first human relationship is with your parents. Yours seemed to do everything they could to distance themselves from you.”

“Yeah,” said Tony, with more emotion than he intended. Hanging out with Benji was turning him into a little bitch.

Bruce flipped over to face him. His eyes were all ‘Timmy’s in the well.’ “They did that because something’s wrong with them—not because something’s wrong with you. Nothing’s wrong with you. They’re assholes. You were just a kid.” Bruce brushed Tony’s hair off his face. “Sean didn’t kill himself because there was anything wrong with you. You probably kept him going longer than he would have otherwise.”

Tony wanted to say something but couldn’t. Some part of him already knew everything Bruce said was true, but it was nice to hear it from someone else.

“Things didn’t work out with Jordan,” said Bruce, “not because you were wrong—but because she was an asshole.”

“I’m sensing a theme here.”

“You weren’t wrong with me, either.” Bruce smiled. “I love you. I always will.” He pressed a hand against Tony’s chest. “Your heart is pure and good, Anthony Stark. There’s nothing wrong with you.” A tear slid down his nose.

“From space,” said Tony.

Bruce snorted and hugged him. Tony choked a little. Bruce patted his back. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “It’s okay to cry.”

“I wasn’t,” said Tony. “You smell like a dirty ashtray and old bong water.” He pulled Bruce closer.

“Thanks,” said Bruce. “You smell like ass.”

Tony sniffle-laughed. “No wonder you’re so attracted to me.”

“Let’s take a nap, then go see who’s playing at Scream.”

“Yeah.” Tony pressed his lips against Bruce’s forehead.

“We’re like brothers, maybe,” said Bruce. “They snuggle.”

“When they’re little. Not when they’re our age, Benji."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. “Dog brothers. They snuggle when they’re adults.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Dog brothers. Holy fuck. Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?”

Bruce giggled.

Tony gave him a slight squeeze. “Dog brothers! How about this? I’ll be me, cool and stunningly handsome Tony Stark, and you can be my dog, Benji. And there’s nothing weird about a wicked-handsome man snuggling with his…dog.”

“If that makes you feel better,” said Bruce, “then I guess that’s okay.” He burrowed his face into Tony’s chest. “Choose your own delusion.”

They relaxed in each other’s arms and fell asleep in the slanting, late summer sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: The nightclub Scream was one of the locations in the movie "Less Than Zero," which starred RDJ and James Spader (the voice of Ultron in AoU.)


	10. Chapter 10

_Seven years later…._

As the muezzin chanted the adhan, the minaret’s loudspeakers broadcast his voice throughout the streets. The call to afternoon prayer danced off the buildings as Bruce finished typing at the little nook in the internet café. He stroked his beard before hitting send. For a moment, he sat perfectly still, as if frozen by the screen before him. He slid a finger beneath his sunglasses and wiped a clean path through the street dust on his cheek.

***

_Grand Hotel, Stockholm, Sweden_

The first strains of Lou Reed’s _A Perfect Day_ floated up from Tony’s laptop. He rose quickly from the bed and shooed the two beauties on either side of him away. “Ginger. Marianne. Scram.” They balked. He grabbed his platinum and diamond money clip from the nightstand, divided the fat wad of cash in two and gave one to each woman. “Go buy something.” Still dressed in only their lingerie, they teeheehee’d out the door.

Tony frowned at his screen. He would have known the sender’s identity even without his alarm. He read the encrypted message as easily as he read English. He was one of only two men on the planet able to do so—it was one of the secret languages he and Bruce had invented over the years.

_My worst nightmare has come to pass. As always, they seek to use me for their own ends. I cannot allow them to use what I have become for nefarious purposes. I won’t allow it. To that end, I must vanish, and so must all traces of me._

_For your own protection, you must destroy all of our correspondence. You must erase me from your life completely. You must deny my existence. If we ever meet again, even if times seem to have changed, you must pretend you never knew me. You know how power shifts—admissions of past transgressions could be punished later by less benevolent regimes._

_I beg you to do as I ask. I would rather die than have any harm come to you because of me. You are my one true friend, and I will miss you as I miss the shards of what was once my life. You are forever in my heart, as I am forever in your debt._

_Benji_

Tony stared out the window at the snow falling from the dark gray sky, feeling the darkness seep into his soul. Barely two years ago, he had buried his parents. Now, he would bury his best friend…alive. His vision blurred slightly as he watched the message erase itself, the pixels peeling away like a lit fuse burning.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to KlaatuDuLak for beta-reading and to pushbutton kitty for answering my stupid questions.


End file.
